


I Always Knew (Bad Things Come In Twos)

by Ceris_Malfoy



Series: Season One Alternates [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Always-a-girl!Stiles, F/M, Fingering, Peter's an oportunistic man, Rutting, Stiles isn't going to be a virgin much longer, Underage - Freeform, allusions to mating, consent kink, in other words, mall scene went a little differently, mall sex, mates of choice, scott's a dumbass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceris_Malfoy/pseuds/Ceris_Malfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh.<br/><i>Oh.</i> That silly, silly boy.<br/>In his rush to save his little girlfriend, Scott’s left Stiles completely and utterly alone.<br/>With Peter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Always Knew (Bad Things Come In Twos)

**Author's Note:**

> Re-watching season one leads to things like this. I have a sick, twisted little mind, and I am fiercely proud of it. Peter, you creepy creeper, I love you dearly. Stay strong and creep on. <3
> 
> Oh, and the title comes from Danny Elfman - The Little Things (UNKLE Variation) as it appears on the Wanted: Weapons of Fate video game. It is a really, really good song, with a beat that makes me want to do dirty-bad things with people. >.>
> 
> (This is definitely going to remain a one-shot, just to let you know.)

Peter watches the baby Argent hurry off, and can’t help the laughter that spills from his lips. Such a clever boy, his errant beta is. “I have to say, Scott, I continue to be impressed with your ingenuity.” He spins casually in place, looking around. He knows Scott is here, even if he can’t scent him. That’s the problem with malls: the stores reek of too many people and bad perfume even to human senses, which makes hunting so very, very difficult. “Just remember,” he adds in, eyeing dress displays for the vaguest hint of teenage boy. “You can’t be everywhere all the time.”

He strains his hearing, and is rewarded with a soft exhalation of repressed anger and worry and barely bitten back retorts. He waits, observing the area around him thoughtfully, but he doesn’t see Scott anywhere. He _does_ see the red-headed girl – Lydia, he remembers – storm out, scowling at her phone, and assumes Argent had texted her.

He is both disappointed and highly amused.

This particular trip has been a bust, not that he had expected any differently. Scott is an amazingly stubborn creature, if not the sharpest crayon in the box, and apparently the threats against the boy’s mother and potential mate are clearly not working. Peter hadn’t lied; he _is_ impressed with Scott’s ingenuity, mostly because he hadn’t thought the boy had it in him. From what he’s seen of Scott’s little pseudo-pack, the real brains of that operation is Stiles.

He smiles at the thought of her.

She’s a tough little thing, bold and beautiful and strikingly fierce in her own way, and he’s never seen someone dare to stand up to a raging alpha the way she does.

Peter wants her.

And what Peter wants, Peter gets.

There exists a mentality amongst werewolf-lore that there is one special being in the world that is specifically designed for each werewolf, the quintessential ‘perfect’ mate. Peter doesn’t believe in the ‘perfect’ mate, and never has. He finds the idea that there is one being in this world perfectly attuned to him absolutely ridiculous, since the chances of finding such a mate are astronomically small - especially considering the quantity of people in the world. Peter doesn’t believe in chance, doesn’t like destiny or fate or anything he can’t control.

What Peter believes in is _potential_. He’s met many people over the course of his life, and he’s gotten a feel for these things: there exists a special breed of humans that were capable of handling the change better than any other. Their potential lingers in their scent and in their actions, in the way they see the world and the people around them. Peter’s known since the first time he smelled her scent clinging to his nephew that Stiles is one of them. More to the point, Stiles is one of those rare few who are instinctively well-suited to mating an alpha.

He takes another look around, still smiling, and shrugs. Scott’s more than likely already hightailed it out of here, chasing after his girlfriend. He starts to leave, whistling merrily, wondering absently if he should attempt to find the boy’s trail and follow him, or if he should give up – temporarily – on Scott and pursue a more … _personal_ encounter, when a _very_ familiar voice tentatively calls out, “Allison? Can you come zip me up? I can’t reach…”

Oh.

 _Oh_. That silly, silly boy.

His grin is sudden and wicked, because Scott has done the most idiotic thing he could have possibly done. The boy has protected the fringe members of his pseudo-pack, but has apparently abandoned – knowingly or not – the only person who is actually _worth_ being pack to Peter. In his rush to save his little girlfriend, Scott’s left his pack-sister completely and utterly alone.

With Peter.

There are no friends around, no other werewolves to fight him off. Even the sales associates for this department are few and scarce at this time of night, what few there are manning the registers looking bored.

He doesn’t hesitate, simply slips into the dressing room – the door of which has been unlatched in anticipation of ‘Allison’ – and quietly shuts the door behind him. He looks at her, taking in the long, lean lines of her body, the soft swells of her hips and breasts, the pale softness of her skin. Unlike the baby Argent, she isn’t fair, but well and truly pale. Her skin is made for the richness of jewel tones, and the dress she’s chosen to try on is a vibrant, eerie red that is suitably striking on her.

“Oh, thank god, Allison, I –” Stiles looks up from where she’s been fiddling with the front of her dress, and sees him in the mirror behind her. She freezes, amber-whiskey eyes widening. Her heartbeat skyrockets and the scents of adrenaline, nervousness, and a strange, heady anticipation fill the enclosed space.

Oh, yes, he knows exactly how much this tiny girl is worth. He may have smelt her potential lingering on Derek like cheap perfume, but it hadn’t been until he’d seen her for the first time that he’d known the depths of that potential.

His mouth waters.

Here is a girl who has taken the reveal of the supernatural world with grace and determination.

Here is a girl who has stuck by Scott even when the boy no doubt attempted to attack and kill her.

Here is a girl who taught his errant beta enough control as to resist Peter.

Here is a girl who may not be a born-wolf but every action and reaction gives tell to something savage inside of her, lurking. Something _hungry_.

Here is a small slip of a girl, barely of mating age, who knows what he is and what he is capable of, yet still is not afraid. She meets his gaze, challenging and confident, respectfully and intelligently wary – one doesn’t challenge alphas lightly – but she is not _afraid_.

She is _magnificent_.

Peter says nothing, merely moves forward, closer, hands reaching out to touch. There is so much pale, unmarked skin on display, the girl’s short, thin silk dress doing little to cover it. He takes in the way it clings becomingly in all the right places, the way he can see the faintest hint of her nipples through the thin fabric.

His hands hover, only for a second, briefly unable to touch for the sheer surge of _want_ that pulses through him when she makes no move to get away. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t shout, doesn’t try and babble her way out of whatever he may do to her. She watches him watch her, amber-whisky eyes still wide, heartbeat fast, but steady. He meets her gaze in the mirror, even as he settles one hand firmly on her hip, curling his fingers possessively, even as he lets his other hand trail down from the nape of her neck down her spine until he has the half-done zipper in his grasp.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she finally says, so very still. There is still no fear, no doubt or shame, just a curious and contemplative gleam in her eyes.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, taking in the view of them in the mirror. He is not a particularly tall man, standing 5’10” at best, but she fits him perfectly – his chin can just rest on the crown of her head. She is all pale skin and gleaming blood-red dress and tousled curls and tawny eyes. Pressed up behind her, he looks exactly like the predator he is: hungry and possessive and _wanting_. He tucks his head in just enough to nuzzle against her curls without breaking their gaze, breathing in deeply the scent of her. She smells like home, as sadly pathetic as that thought is. She smells like rain and vanilla, like crisp linen and maple syrup, like wood-smoke and blood.

He slowly slides the zipper down, trailing the backs of his knuckles against her spine teasingly. He watches as the way her pupils expand, turning that amber-whiskey brown into a thin ring of bright fire-lit gold. He listens to the way her heartbeat stutters before steadying again. Peter listens to the language her body speaks and knows, _knows_ , that she wants him.

“Tell me to leave,” he says again, even as he slips his hand into the dress, winding it slowly, so slowly around her slim waist and over her flat stomach and up her ribs, until he is cupping the swell of one breast in his hand. He trails his thumb teasingly around her nipple, never quite daring to touch it – not yet – and sighs contently as he feels the slight, instinctive arch of her body as she tries to press her breast more firmly into his hand.

He hears the riotous thunder of her heart’s-blood in her veins, this girl so full of vitality and life, and cannot help the growl that escapes his throat. His cock is hard and insistent against the coarse fabric of his pants, and he wants nothing more than to strip this bare slip of a girl down and _fuck_ her. It has been so long, too long, since he’d last been with anyone like this, but even back when he’d been whole and somewhat content, he’d never wanted as badly as this. He wanted to take her, _claim_ her, over and over and over and over again, in front of every one of her friends and family so that they would know that she was _his_.

Stiles _is_ his.

“Tell me to leave,” he says again, this time an edge of desperate warning lingering in his voice. Because he is many things – a murderer, a werewolf, a burnt-out shell of a man, a desperate alpha in search of _pack/family/home_ – but he is not, and never will be, a rapist. He will not take this girl, this precious, amazing girl, against her will. But he can’t make himself let her go, either. So he needs her to tell him to leave or stay, needs her to stop looking at him like he is a particularly challenging puzzle she wants to solve.

“And if I do?” she asks, watching him. There is a challenge in her voice and in her eyes.

The hand on her hip clenches tightly before relaxing. “I’ll let you go,” he says quietly. And he will. Because something like mating can’t truly be done without consent. Mating is a serious business all around, and forced mate-bonds never end well for anyone, least of all the one attempting to force it.

“You really _would_ ,” she says, a slight hint of disbelief in her voice. A faint, teasing smile crosses her full lips. “And if I _don’t_ tell you to leave?”

Peter moves his thumb deliberately against her taut nipple, and slides his other hand over smooth silk and down into the juncture between her thighs. He trails a solitary finger against the cotton of her underwear, before pressing down steadily where he knows her clit is. A low, keening whine escapes her throat as her body impulsively bucks into the entirely new sensation. Her head tips back and her lips part, eyes slipping half-close as her flush deepens and she bares her throat to him.

All the breath he has feels like it’s been punched out of him at the sight of her pale, unmarked throat. He dips his head to mouth at it, suckling bruises into existence all down that expanse of skin. “Tell me to leave,” he breathes out, even as he carefully extends a claw and cuts the seat of her underwear, slipping his finger into the breach and feeling her. He moans. She’s so _wet_. He eagerly returns to working his hands at her eagerly writhing body. He can _smell_ how close she is, can practically _taste_ how deeply she is effected by his touches, by his hunger. He pulls her compliant, wanting body against his, clever fingers working her even faster. He wants her to feel how hard he is for her, wants her to know what the sight and smell and feel of her is doing to him. “Tell me to leave, or I will _never_ let you go.”

It sounds more like a promise than the threat it is meant to be, but he can’t bring himself to care. She feels so good against him, so right.

 _His_.

All _his_.

“Y-you…I…oh _god_ ,” she whimpers, body trembling, rocking in a rhythm that’s wild and uncoordinated and tells Peter more than she would probably like about how inexperienced she really is. He doubts rather sincerely that she’s ever really done this to _herself_. He grins against her neck, watching her eagerly in the mirror. She looks so wanton, chasing her orgasm the way she is. “ _Please_ ,” she begs, “Peter, _please_.” She’s so close.

He swirls his thumb around her clit and slips a single finger inside of her. It is enough. She falls apart, so spectacularly beautiful in her pleasure, that it only takes him several sharp thrusts against the swell of her ass before his own orgasm rips through him. He barely chokes back the triumphant howl he wants to give out, barely manages to clench his teeth against the inclination to bite her, deep and hard.

He hasn’t asked for that yet, and won’t force the bite on her either.

Stiles is panting, body trembling and shivering in the aftershocks of her first orgasm with another person. She is sagging against him, knees buckling. He slips his hands out of her dress and her ruined underwear and bears her weight as he twists her around and pulls her tight against him. She tucks her head into his chest, fingers clamping tight on the lapels of his leather jacket.

He gently runs a hand down her spine, soothing and gentling.

“Tell me,” he says quietly.

“Don’t leave,” she whispers back, leaning fully against him as her body finally started to relax.

He is exultant, triumphant, victorious. She is his, all his, and he won’t let her go. There’s only one more thing.… He grabs her wrist and holds it up to his mouth, allowing her to move back enough to look at him. “Do you want the bite?” he asks her.

She is disheveled and young and not anything like he’d imagined the first time he caught her scent on Derek, but she is nonetheless the most beautiful thing in his universe. She smiles at him, tremulous and disbelieving. “Why me?” she asks him.

He can’t help but chuckle. “I know of no one else who would _dare_ trap an enraged alpha werewolf in a boiler room, then peak in to _taunt_ it,” he says bemusedly, nuzzling against her wrist. “I know of no one more worthy than you who have risked everything for a mere _friend_ , even when said friend attempts to kill you. You are loyal and brave and smart – so _very_ smart – and, even better: you’re not afraid of me.

She flushes.

“ _Stiles_ ,” he purrs at her, teeth lengthening in anticipation. “Who else could it be?”

Her eyes widen, her breath catching. She swallows, gaze flickering between his own eyes and her wrist against his mouth. “I…” she trails off.

“Do you want this?” he asks against the fragile skin of her wrist, letting her feel the graze of his fangs as he speaks.

“ _Yes_ ,” she breathes out softly, as if she spoke any louder, this would all disappear.

But Peter has her now. He has her – willing, even, if not fully informed – and he means to keep her. He smiles at her, lets her see his pleasure with her choice. He places a gentle kiss against her wrist, drops it, and steps away from her.

“Get dressed,” he tells her.

She stares at him, something unbearably like hurt crossing her face.

“I’m not going to bite you in a Macy’s changing room,” he says wryly. “No matter how much I want to.”

She nods shakily, and doesn’t hesitate to slip off the dress. Another thread of pure _want_ courses through Peter at the sight of her almost completely naked and he licks his lips in anticipation. He’s only just started with her, and she doesn’t even _know_. Stiles catches him looking at her, and she starts trembling again, but she’s steady enough as she pulls on her baggy jeans over her ruined underwear and puts on her t-shirt and flannel over-shirt.

He picks up her discarded dress and ushers his girl out of the changing room, and over to the register, a smug smirk on his face at the tell-tale scents of satisfaction and sex they leave behind. He pays for the dress, waving off Stiles’ protests.

“So where are we going?” she asks once he takes her hand and starts tugging her out of the store. She’s blushing again, gripping her bag tightly.

He eyes her hungrily as he pulls her through the mall towards the parking lot his temporary ride is in. “I’m going to take you to an apartment, where there’s a bed,” he tells her matter-of-factually. “I’m going to strip you of those clothes you use to hide from the rest of the world and then I’m going to _fuck_ you.” He smiles. “I’m going to do so _many_ things to you, Stiles, everything you’ve ever even _dreamed_ about; I’m going to make you _beg_. And when I’m done, when I’ve wrung every last ounce of pleasure out of you, I’m going to bite you.”

A strangled noise echoes in his ears, and his smile turns wolfish. Oh yes, the things he is going to do to her. That isn’t even the _half_ of everything he wants. But she’ll find out in time.

All good things in time.


End file.
